


It takes a fool to remain sane

by Charlielinnea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Caring Mycroft Holmes, Chicken Soup, Choose Your Own Ending, Depression, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mycroft can handle his emotions for once, POV Greg Lestrade, Pre-Relationship, Suicidal Thoughts, Tired Greg Lestrade, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21697972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlielinnea/pseuds/Charlielinnea
Summary: Greg is sad, tired and fed up with most parts of his life. Eventually he's too depressed to take care of himself properly, and the people around him have to step up and help him out.Mycroft shows sides of himself that Greg had no idea existed. What will happen on Greg's journey back to happiness?This is a work in progress and ratings, tags and summary might change over time.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 51
Kudos: 125





	1. Pints at the pub

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and sorry in advance for this rather long note. This is my first time writing fan fiction, my first time publishing anything in English - which is not my first language - and I'm terrified and excited at the same time! I had no idea how badly I needed fan fiction in my life until I accidentally stumbled upon Archive of Our Own roughly 6 months ago. Since then, I've read hundreds of Mystrade stories and just had to try to write something myself too. 
> 
> Please let me know if I've made any grammar, spelling or formatting mistakes in the text. 
> 
> The title is the name of a great song by a Swedish pop artist, but it has nothing to do with the actual story ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

He couldn’t say exactly when it had started. There was no reason for it really, no particularly gruesome case at work or tragic death in the family. Of course, he had been through a divorce last year, but more than anything he had been secretly relieved to get it all over with. They hadn’t had a good relationship for years anyway, so when Karen finally sat him down in the kitchen and said that she wanted a divorce, he had wasted no time in packing up his stuff and leave. She hadn’t mentioned anything about the PE teacher then, but the speed with which she moved into his flat after the divorce was finalized had given it away – Karen would never move in with a new boyfriend that quick, so she had obviously … _multitasked_ during their marriage. Greg was angry about it, and more than a little disappointed in her, but sad? No. And even if being on his own for the first time in twenty-something years had been different, a bit weird really, he had been feeling fine. Alone, yeah, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. And then Sherlock had come back from the dead a few months ago, so surely Greg was supposed to be happy. He _had_ been happy, along with a whole lot of other complicate emotions, when Sherlock suddenly had appeared outside his flat late one evening in June.

“Graham! Open the door, I’ve forgotten my lock picks!”

Greg had looked down at the beer in his hand where he was sitting in front of the TV, wondering if this was it, the moment when he finally had gone mad. But no, it had turned out to be Sherlock himself, in flesh and blood, although paler and skinnier than usual. John had of course raged about the betrayal for weeks, no one could blame him, but eventually he and Sherlock had sorted things out, moved back to Baker Street and taken up their detective business again.

It was as close to normal as it could be. So why was he feeling so damn tired and fed up all the time?

A short tap on the door interrupted his thoughts _(not that they’re particularly useful anyway,_ he thought). Sally stuck her head through the door without waiting for his answer, earning herself an annoyed frown from him.

“What?”

“Feeling shirty today, are we?” she said. “I just wanted to tell you that we’ve finally closed the Hendricson case, nothing left to do about it now until it’s due in court next week. Pints at the pub? Most of the team is going down there after work.”

“Alright. I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll think about it?” she replied, amused. “When did you ever pass down a chance for an evening at the pub?”

“There’s a first time for everything, Donovan. Close the door on your way out,” he snapped, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the surprised look on her face.

He leaned back with his head against the wall behind him, ignoring the creak of the frayed office chair, and closed his eyes for a moment. _Pints at the pub. Right._ Normally, he would look forward to it, after this hellish week his team deserved a break, but he could not shake the bone deep tiredness from his body, and he didn’t feel like socializing. He also couldn’t stand the thought of having to explain himself to Sally, so eventually he decided to pull himself together and join them anyway. Surely, it couldn’t be that bad, and he didn’t have to back in the office until Monday so he’d have plenty of time to catch up on sleep in the weekend.

Two pints later, he deeply regretted not going straight home to his sofa and one of the endless Friday evening talk shows on the telly. He’d much rather choose Graham Norton and his stupid red sofa over this loud bunch of police officers. They were all disgustingly happy, chatting away about weekend plans and gossiping about the Superintendent’s new wife who had stopped by the office earlier that day.

“Oi, boss! I hope you’re not feeling too sad about being divorced, at least you’re not on wife number five like Johnson!” one of the constables half-shouted from further down the bar.

“Sod off Lee," Greg replied. “I’m going home, let me hope none of you idiots are going to get arrested for being drunk and disorderly. See you Monday.”

There was a chorus of goodbyes from the group, and Greg pulled on his coat and left. He stood still outside the pub for a minute, trying to decide if to take the tube or not, but his flat wasn’t that far away, and a walk would probably help to clear his head. He looked for his gloves but came up empty-handed and so just drove his hands deep into the coat pockets instead and started walking.

 _Fuck, I’m tired. I’ll still have trouble sleeping tonight though,_ he thought and rolled his eyes. _Nothing more ironic than insomnia when all you want to do is sleep the weekend away. And now it’s raining too. Just my luck._

When he finally reached his flat, he couldn’t be arsed sorting out his wet coat and damp clothes. He just stripped down to his pants right where he stood in the hallway and left the clothes in a sad pile on the floor. Stepping over them, he briefly considered cooking something, or at least checking the fridge for something to eat, but he couldn’t really be bothered with that either. He sank down in the middle of the sofa and flipped through the channels on the TV. It wouldn’t matter much what he chose, because he always ended up distracted by his thoughts anyway. Sighing, he pulled a blanket over himself and settled against the cushions. It would be another long night.


	2. Lunch with Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here goes chapter 2... I'm afraid I might have messed up the word order in a few places, please let me know if you spot anything that isn't correct (English is confusing!).  
> Thanks for kudos and comments, it's much appreciated.

He was already awake when the mobile phone started blaring its alarm on Monday morning. It was supposed to be a “gentle bird chirping” alarm sound, but he’d always thought it sounded a lot more like an audio clip from _The Birds._ Getting out of bed took longer than he wanted to admit, but eventually he took a deep breath, put his feet on the cold floor and made his way to the bathroom. After turning on the water in the shower, he stood in front of the mirror and stared back at his reflection. He didn’t really look any different, the silver streaks in his hair were perhaps increasing in number a bit, but his eyes were as big and dark brown as always, and his nose was definitely still the same amount of crooked since that time Sherlock broke it. He tried a smile in the mirror, and immediately regretted it – he looked more like a lion sneaking up to its prey than someone trying to radiate happiness. It quite agreed with how he felt on the inside though, he contemplated as he stepped into the hot shower. _Like a terrifying lion? Bah. A depressed sloth is probably more accurate. Pull yourself together Greg… Christ._

If Sherlock had been to Scotland Yard that day, he would have immediately claimed that everything was dull and BORING! Greg was inclined to agree. By all means, it was a good thing that the Londoners hade decided to take a break from murders and assaults, but it meant that all Greg could do was to stay in the office and catch up on paperwork. By noon, his head was hurting from all the reading and filling out forms, and his mouth tasted funny from too much bad coffee. He leaned forward and rested his head on the desk for just a minute, trying to find the energy to keep going. When the phone rang, he was so deep in thoughts that he picked up his mobile and stared at it for several seconds before realising it was the landline ringing.

“Lestrade,” he said as he fumbled with the receiver.

“Hello, Detective Inspector," the smooth voice of Mycroft Holmes said. “I wanted to inquire about whether you would be amenable to meet me for lunch today."

“Oh,” Greg replied and spent an embarrassingly long minute trying to gather his thoughts. The other man kept quiet, waiting for his reply. “It’s Monday, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“I completely forgot, I am so sorry… But yeah, sure, lunch sounds great. The usual place in,” he looked at the clock on the wall, “fifteen minutes?”

“There is no need to rush on my behalf, Detective Inspector. You will find me there.”

“Alright Mycroft, see you soon!”

“Until then.”

Somehow it had slipped his mind that today was Monday, which meant lunch with Mycroft. They had known each other for years, and over time their conversations about Sherlock had progressed into biweekly lunch meetings. The official reason was of course still Sherlock, but these days it was a bit more informal and… perhaps 'friendly' wasn’t a description Mycroft would approve of, but it wasn’t too far from it anyway.

Greg shoved his stack of papers into the top drawer and shrugged on his coat while walking through the door.

“Donovan!” he said, “I’m out for lunch. You’re in charge.”

She said nothing but looked up from her own load of paperwork and waved her hand at him to show him that she had heard.

The walk to the café wasn’t long but still gave him time to wonder if Mycroft was surprised about him forgetting about lunch. Despite their unpredictable working hours, they rarely had to cancel their meetings (Greg strongly suspected that Mr minor-government-official had something to do with the fact that his workload magically seemed to lessen every other Monday around noon), and so it was even more embarrassing that Greg had plainly forgot all about it this week. Nothing to do about it now though, he thought.

He found Mycroft in their usual spot next to a window. As always, he looked sharp in a light grey three-piece suit, and a dark moss green coat was carefully draped over the back of a chair next to him. He already had a plate of his usual order in front of him (Caesar salad, no croutons, little dressing but extra chicken) as well as a plate of Greg’s usual across the table (cheeseburger with bacon).

“Detective Inspector, how kind of you to join me.”

“Greg. It’s Greg, I can’t believe I have to tell you this every time.”

“Very well, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, his eyes smiling even though his face was as expressionless as always. “I took the liberty of getting food for the both of us, I hope you do not mind."

“Not at all Mycroft, thanks. I’m starving actually, would have forgotten lunch altogether today if you hadn’t reminded me."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow and paused with his fork halfway between the plate and his mouth. “Busy day at work, detect… Gregory?”

“Oh no, not at all. Loads of paper work though.” Greg shrugged and picked up his burger with both hands. It was quite likely the only proper food he would eat today, so he might as well make the most of it.

“Sorry to hear that. Did you have a satisfactory weekend?”

“Nah. I mean, it was okay. Didn’t do that much,” Greg said, cringing as he thought about exactly how non-productive his weekend had been. There was no way he could tell the ever-efficient, hard-working government official that he had spent the whole weekend on the sofa, except for going out once to buy more cigarettes. Mycroft could probably deduce most of it anyway, and the thought made Greg feel a pang of anxiety.

They ate in silence for a while.

“Pardon me for saying this, Gregory," Mycroft said as he picked up his napkin and gracefully dabbed his mouth with it. “But you look positively… knackered. Is everything alright?”

“Huh," Greg said with his mouth full of burger. He hastily swallowed and continued, “everything’s fine, it’s fine. Yeah. Nothing to worry about, probably just a bit of winter blues. You know how tired you get with winter approaching, and whatnot…” He winced at the sound of his own high-pitched, rushed words.

“No, I can’t say I do," Mycroft replied. His blue eyes bored into Greg and the detective did his best to resist squirming under his gaze. “I hope you are aware that I would gladly offer you assistance should you ever find yourself in need of it.”

“Uh, thanks," Greg answered, somehow taken aback by the serious tone in the other man’s voice. “Appreciate it. I’m fine though.” He scrambled to change the topic of conversation. “How was your trip to China last week?”

Later that day, as he tossed and turned in bed waiting for sleep to come, he wondered what would have happened if he had been honest during their conversation. Surely Mycroft would have been horrified at the laziness and lack of self-discipline, and Monday lunches would be nothing but a memory henceforth. Mycroft radiated a sense of calm and superiority, but it was also impossible to miss his working spirit, energy and quiet force that lurked just beneath the surface of fancy suits and well-polished shoes. He’d have no interest associating with someone like Greg, who spent the whole weekend lying on the sofa, and almost couldn’t muster the energy needed to go to work in the mornings. To his horror and astonishment, Greg suddenly felt his eyes go all hot and prickly _. I haven’t cried since my nana died seven years ago, and I’m going to start now?_ he thought. _I’m an idiot._


	3. Sherlock's surprise visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had time to re-read this, might get time for it soon, but meanwhile - please point out any mistakes I might have done while stress-writing this chapter...
> 
> Also, I know that so far there hasn't really been a lot of feelings and thoughts from our poor Greg, more than the everpresent tiredness (that I'm getting fed up with myself, haha) but there will be more details about those stuff later on. I wish I could write about everything but then this story would be hundreds of thousands words long and we wouldn't want that!

The rest of the week passed agonisingly slow. Rainy crime scenes. Stacks of paper on his desk threatening to topple over. Sally casting him glances that he couldn’t decipher. A murdered man. Another man battered, almost to the point of being murdered. The Superintendent barking orders from behind his desk. More cups of coffee than he could count.

But finally, it was Friday. Since the divorce, Greg had volunteered to work almost every single weekend, not wanting to face his empty flat more than necessary. He enjoyed being busy, but when Annie from HR eventually had found out a few weeks ago, she had immediately let Greg (and more surprisingly, the Superintendent) know that it was _completely unacceptable_ to work that much without taking _proper time to rest and relax._ And so, he was now under strict orders to stay away from the Yard at the weekends, barring a complete emergency at work. Sally just rolled her eyes whenever he complained about not being allowed to work at the weekends, “I’d swap with you if I could!”, so these days he just quietly slipped out of the office on Friday afternoons and went home.

It was the first week of December, and most of his neighbours had already put up Christmas decorations in their windows and on the balconies. When he approached the building of flats, his own two windows were a depressing black compared to others filled with fairy lights, dancing snowmen and whatnot. He knew he had decorations in a box somewhere deep in the closet, but he didn’t feel up for anymore stupid Christmas stuff now. Instead, he dragged himself up the stairs, opened the door to the flat and closed his eyes briefly when he saw the mess. There were things scattered everywhere - newspapers stacked on the side table, shoes spread out on the floor of the hallway, one of his coats haphazardly hung up on the handle of the kitchen door. Add to that the pile of dirty dishes and take away boxes in the kitchen and Greg felt positively filthy. _If mum was still alive, she would twist my ears for letting this turn into a pigsty_ , he thought and did a half-hearted attempt to at least organise the pile of clothes in the armchair. Soon enough, he gave up and laid down on the sofa.

 _Is it always going to be like this now?_ he thought. _I don’t even know what “this” is. Really shouldn’t be that hard to pull myself together and start acting like a grown man instead of sulking away my weekend on this fucking sofa. No wonder Karen left me, she deserved better than this sorry excuse for a human being._

It was impossible to stop the thoughts, quickly spiralling out of control. He felt the familiar tightening of his chest, and willed himself to take slow, deep breaths. It certainly wouldn’t do to start his weekend with a panic attack, he hadn’t even been home for half an hour _and I’m already going mental!_

Then there was a knock on the door. He sat up and blinked in surprise, turning his head towards the door wondering if he had misheard. No one had ever visited him in the flat, except for John when he had helped Greg move, and of course Sherlock when he had returned from the dead. Another knock, harder this time.

“Who is it?” he called out.

“Who do you think it is you daft idiot? Open the door this instant” an unmistakable deep voice said, loud enough to be heard through the door.

“What if I don’t want to open the door?” Greg replied. “Maybe I’m busy, maybe I don’t have time to deal with you right now.” He closed his eyes and laid back down on the sofa.

“Don’t be ridiculous George. Busy doing what exactly, wallowing in self-pity?” Sherlock said as the door swung open. He held out his hand and showed Greg the lockpicks. “Useful things, these.”

“I bet”, Greg said flatly. “Sorry about the mess in here… Wasn’t really expecting anyone.”

“I’ve seen worse. Of course, when I last saw something this bad, it was in an abandoned warehouse where everyone, myself included, was high on cocaine or heroin. Didn’t think you’d be messy like a drug addict, actually.”

“Thanks Sherlock. Always so quick to cheer me up.”

There was a moment’s silence as Sherlock looked around the flat, no doubt registering all the tiny little clues about what Greg had been up to lately. Eventually he fixed his gaze on Greg himself, frowning.

“You really don’t feel well, Greg”, he said, a faint tone of surprise in his voice.

“Great deduction Sherlock”, the other man replied and rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock called him his actual name this time.

“What’s wrong with you then? Is it work? Would you like me to solve some of your cases for you?”

“Thanks for offering, but it’s not that. It’s… I don’t really know what it is, actually. I’m just tired”

“Yes, I can see that. Too tired to take care of yourself, evidently. Have you eaten today?”

Had he eaten today? Greg tried to remember. He supposed that a stale cookie and bitter coffee from the canteen at work didn’t count, so he shook his head. How ironic that Sherlock, who could go for days without eating if no one reminded him, was asking Greg about his eating habits.

“This won’t do, Geoff.” Sherlock said, his coat flapping behind him as he turned around and stalked out the door. “Someone will bring you food, you should eat it!” he called over his shoulder on his way out.

And then he was gone. Greg sighed. Sherlock always tried to hide that he was capable of caring and having feelings, but he had shown Greg more compassion in the last few minutes than he had for months. And if he really was sending someone with food, Greg wouldn’t complain.

As it turned out, Sherlock sent a member from his homeless network with takeaway from several of the restaurants nearby, so Greg had enough Chinese and Indian food to last for days. He wasn’t sure that was a good thing though, as it did nothing to motivate him to get out of the flat. When Monday morning came around again, he had once more spent most of the weekend in front of the TV, unable to get anything done.

And now, the alarm was singing its dreadful bird song and he really, really should get out of bed if he wanted to make it to work on time. He didn’t want to make it to work at all though. He thought about it for a few minutes, then picked up his phone to turn off the sodding alarm and opened the text message app. _What am I going to tell her?_ he thought. _I haven’t called in sick to work in ages, can’t even remember when that last happened. Maybe I have food poisoning?”_ He quickly typed a message to Sally before changing his mind. **Hey S, won't be able to come in today. High fever and feeling dizzy, probably the flu! :( Don't worry though, I'll be fine. You're in charge!**

Having sent the text, he promptly turned his phone off, pulled up the covers and went back to sleep before he could think too much about what he had just done.


	4. The black box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and sorry for taking so long to post this chapter :( Christmas, work, and a sick toddler really messed up my plan of updating once a week. But it's finally here, happy reading (even though the story is not happy at all at this point)
> 
> TW: this chapter mentions suicidal thoughts and sort of also suicide attempts.

Every evening, for the rest of the week, Sally texted him to ask if he was feeling better and if he thought he’d be able to go to work the following day. And every evening, his stomach feeling heavy with guilt and shame, he replied with various excuses until he finally gave up and just told her that no, unfortunately the influenza was unusually stubborn this time and he would probably not be back until next Monday. “ **Hang in there,** he texted,  **I’m sure you can manage. Always here if you need advice over the phone!”** But she never called, and he was immensely grateful for that, as he wasn’t sure that he had enough energy even for a simple phone call. No one else got in touch either, and he felt equal parts relieved and sad about it. 

He woke up in the mornings, sometimes before sunrise and sometimes closer to lunch time, all depending on when he managed to fall asleep the night before. Most days he took a shower, once or twice he didn’t even do that and just splashed some water on his face and avoided looking in the mirror for the rest of the day. The amount of coffee he drank would probably have killed him if he hadn’t spent years in the force more or less surviving on the black, bitter liquid. He ate a bit too - the odd leftovers from the freezer, and some takeaway – but never felt hungry enough for a proper meal. His resolution to try and stay off the cigarettes had gone out the window some time ago, but now he had even stopped going outside to smoke, opting instead to lean out the open window in the kitchen and smoke his cigarettes from there.  _ What kind of lazy fucker can’t even go outside for a smoke,  _ he thought, but still couldn’t bring himself to open the door and go downstairs. 

And so, the week dragged on. He was sprawled out on the couch most of the time, trying to find something worth to watch on the TV, but there were few things that could distract him from his thoughts.  _ Isn’t that ironic,  _ he thought and rolled his eyes _. The whole problem is that I’m thinking too much, but since I’ve apparently chosen to stay at home for the week, there’s nothing else to do than to think.  _ Part of him desperately wanted to be back at work, chasing criminals and sorting out crime scenes just to keep occupied, but another part of him just wanted to curl up on the sofa and never leave the flat again. He cried a lot, too. At first, he had been annoyed and angry with how frequently the tears started flowing, but towards the end of the week he had given in to the emotional outbursts and simply let it happen. It drained him, though, always made his chest feeling tight and his head pounding with headache. 

_ How has it come to this _ , he asked himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that this was not normal, that he should seek out professional help, or at least pull himself together and just tell someone what was going on.  _ As if they would care, no one except Sally has even noticed that I’m away, and she’s just asking for me because she needs help at work. Greg Lestrade – the loneliest fucking person in the world. Not even Mycroft has gotten in touch, and I’ll eat my socks if he didn’t know I called in sick as soon as I sent Sally that text. Jennifer hasn’t called either, probably too busy with her new boyfriend, why would she want to waste energy on her pathetic excuse for a brother… I’ll just rot in this flat.  _

  
It was after recovering from one such  _ stupid fucking crying like a baby session  _ that an idea suddenly appeared in his mind. He got up from the sofa, cursing as dizziness overtook him and he had to grab onto the table to steady himself.  _ I haven’t eaten today, have I?  _ After a minute his head felt clearer and he walked into the kitchen, opening one cupboard after another and rummaging through the contents.  _ I know it’s here somewhere!  _ Finally, after crouching down to search far inside one of the cupboards, his hand touched cold glass and he knew he had found it. Grinning to himself, he pulled out a bottle of scotch. Mycroft had bought it for him when his divorce was finalized, but he hadn’t mustered the courage to open it ( _ since it’s probably worth more than my monthly salary) _ , instead opting to wait for the right occasion.  _ Being a sad lonely bastard is a perfectly reasonable occasion to get drunk on fancy scotch,  _ he decided _.  _ He poured himself a generous amount in a seemingly clean mug that he grabbed from the kitchen bench, rolling his eyes at the thought of what Mycroft would’ve said if he had seen how Greg treated the scotch. When he bent down to put it back, his eyes fell on a black box next to where the bottle had been.  _ Christ. I had completely forgotten about that box.  _ Suddenly, his hands were trembling. He retreated to the sofa, mug in one hand and the slightly heavy box in the other.

It took a few minutes and several gulps of the amber coloured liquid before he could bring himself to open the box. He didn’t trust himself with the content right now, but it seemed impossible to put it back in the cupboard and forget about it once more. Eventually, he lifted the lid and stared down at the black pistol inside. He didn’t pick it up but touched it gingerly and brought back the memory of when he had last seen it. It had been on the anniversary of Sherlock’s death. He had gone to visit John, to make sure the doctor wouldn’t be alone with his thoughts that day. And Christ, was he glad he had gone to see him, because when Greg arrived the doctor had been sitting on the sofa turning the gun over in his hands. “What’s the point, mate?” John had said, his face pale and tired. “If this is how the rest of my life is going to be, I’m not sure I want to be around for it”.

It had taken many days of talking, an emergency appointment with a therapist, and a fair number of pints at the nearest pub, before he had been convinced that John wasn’t going to pull the same stunt anytime soon. The gun had gone in the box, which had gone in the cupboard and soon after Greg had forgotten about it.  _ Probably not a good look for a police officer to have an illegal gun in the kitchen,  _ he thought as he was staring down at the pistol. Eventually he picked it up, the metal cool under his hands.

_ Pull yourself together, Greg. Put the gun down and call someone to help. This won’t do. On the other hand… no one seems to miss me when I go off the grid for a week, so maybe they wouldn’t notice if I took this stupid gun and shot my brains out. It would just be another number in the suicide statistics, and a nasty surprise for the landlady when she comes to see why I’ve stopped paying rent. _

Almost on autopilot, he undid the safety catch on the gun. His hands were resting on his lap and they held onto the pistol so tightly that his knuckles went white.  _ God help me _ , he thought and closed his eyes.


	5. Anthea's hidden talent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I have re-written this chapter like ten times over the past two weeks and I'm still not quite happy with it. But it'll do, I guess. Also, I am really trying to keep the word count down but it's just so damn hard. This chapter is a bit longer than the others... 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I love comments and kudos and all things nice :D  
> And as usual, please point out any spelling/grammar/formatting errors! I hate sloppy mistakes but I'm sure I've left a few in the text...

“GREGORY LESTRADE, open the door this instant or so help me God, I will kick it in!”

It was only by sheer luck that the gun didn’t drop to the floor and go off when the loud banging on the door startled him from his imminent panic attack.

“Hang on, hang on… Just a second!” he replied, voice unsteady. He unloaded the gun and reached for the box to put it back. He never got that far, however, because with a load bang the door flew open and revealed a breathless, slightly flushed Mycroft Holmes on the other side of the threshold. Behind him, on high stiletto heels, Anthea peered into the flat.

“Detective Inspector, let me take care of that." she said and swiftly made her way over to the sofa to take the gun from his hands. “I will be back shortly, sir.” she murmured, this time addressing Mycroft, before walking out the flat and shutting the door behind her.

“Mycroft”, Greg said with a weak voice. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Gregory… you are an idiot, are you aware of that?” Mycroft scolded, but with no anger in his voice. He kneeled next to the sofa and tentatively wrapped his arms around the other man. 

“What took you so bloody long?” Greg whispered, dimly aware that he was making the other man’s shirt wet with tears. 

"My apologies." Mycroft said. "I had to go to Brussels for the week, we only returned this morning. I wasn't aware of," he cleared his throat, "how bad it was." 

He loosened his grip around the man on the sofa and started to move away from the embrace. It took Greg a few seconds to understand that the sudden whimpers that he heard came from his own mouth. 

"No, no!" he said, barely able to form coherent words. "Don't leave me, don't go, I can't be alone, I'm going mad!" 

His fingers tightened around soft fabric, and he buried his head into the politician's firm shoulder. Any other day, he'd be mortified at his own embarrassing behaviour, but he was too distressed to give it any thought now. His body was shivering and his breath quickening. He suddenly felt very scared of what would've happened if Mycroft hadn't shown up. _I'm alive,_ his mind helpfully supplied. _I'm still alive._ He swallowed hard, trying to suppress the urgent need of vomiting.

"Gregory." Mycroft’s voice sounded like it came from far away. "Gregory, breath with me. Take a deep breath, there you go." Warm hands started rubbing his back, firm strokes going up and down over tense muscles. He tried desperately to hang on to the rhythm and sound of the other man’s breathing, to match the pattern, breath in deep… and out. Eventually the sense of dread and panic subsided and he willed his body to relax as much as possible. 

“As much as I wish I could stay here on the floor for as long as you need, my knees are not particularly happy with that thought.” Mycroft murmured, a hint of humour in his voice. “Just let go for a minute and I will join you on the sofa.” 

“Yes, yes, of course… I’m terribly sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking and...” Greg cringed as he let go and nervously started to pick on invisible lint on his trousers. 

“Perhaps you were not thinking, but merely acting on emotional urges.'' Mycroft interrupted. “And that is, of course, perfectly acceptable. Happens to all of us from time to time." He wasn’t quite successful in hiding the grimace of pain as he got up from the floor and relocated to the sofa. 

“Except for you.” Greg sniffed. “You must think I’m mad.” 

“Rest assured, Detective Inspector, that even my emotions get the better of me from time to time. But that is surely a story to be told at a later occasion. Now, is there anything you would like to talk about? Or would you rather clean yourself up and get a meal first?"

"Uh… I don't know really. It's hard to make decisions." Greg leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. "I had some scotch." he confessed, only just now acknowledging the simmering feeling of drunkenness in his body. His brain was too slow, but he didn't think he could blame it entirely on the alcohol. 

"I know. I have spent some time..." Mycroft said but never had time to finish the sentence before a sharp knock on the door interrupted him. 

"Detective Inspector, Mr Holmes.” Anthea entered and stepped aside to let two stern-looking men in suits through the door. They were carrying boxes and bags of various sizes, and the three of them walked into the kitchen. 

“Uh… What is she doing?” Greg muttered. 

“Nothing to be concerned about, I’m certain. Although I have to admit I don’t exactly know what she _is_ doing…” Mycroft said, looking thoughtful. “We will find out soon, I believe. Now, would you care for a shower? I will organize a meal for us to share, since I imagine you have not eaten in quite some time.” 

Greg glared at Anthea as she came back into the sitting room and placed a small leather bag on the table in front of him, barely finding any room for it among all the dirty dishes. After whispering a few words in Mycroft’s ear, she disappeared once again into the kitchen. She looked completely at ease in his flat and he briefly wondered if he should feel upset that she was barging in on them like this. It usually annoyed him endlessly when Mycroft or any of his minions took decisions over his head like this, but now he found himself feeling grateful that someone else took charge. 

“There are clean clothes for you in the bag." Mycroft explained as he extended a hand towards Greg. 

_Does he want me to hold his hand?_ Greg stared, his brain doing nothing to help him figure out what the gesture meant. His body had started to come down after the intense emotional stress of earlier, and he was struggling to stay awake. 

"Let me help you stand." Mycroft said softly. 

"Oh."

He was unceremoniously pulled up from the sofa and swayed a bit as he tried to find his balance. _I just want to go to sleep_. He stared at the brown leather bag, and then lifted his gaze and stared at Mycroft. His mind felt completely blank and it seemed impossible to make a single decision about anything. 

"Do you require any assistance, Gregory?" Mycroft offered, a concerned look on his face. 

"Uh. I don't know really." Greg blinked. _What was it again? Take a shower... and then sleep? Eat?_

"...right," Mycroft said, looking like he had just made a decision, "come with me if you please." He took hold of Greg's elbow and steered him towards the bedroom door, pushing it open. The bedroom was even messier than the rest of the flat, but Mycroft did not seem to notice. He swiftly removed his suit jacket and carefully draped it over a chair by the window. The cufflinks came off next, and then he rolled up his sleeves. The sight of creamy, freckled skin made a small part of Greg's tired brain sparkle for a second, but the sensation was gone as soon as it had appeared. 

"Gregory, please do let me know if I overstep any boundaries of yours. I merely intend to help." Mycroft's blue eyes searches his face, looking for any sign of discomfort or objection. He seemed to have found none, because he continued explaining. "I am going to help you undress, so you can have a shower. While you are in the shower, I am going to arrange a meal, and then we are going to eat. I am well aware that you are tired and there will be plenty of opportunity to rest later. Any questions?" 

Greg shook his head. _Shower, eat, sleep. I can do that._ He watched as long, slim fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt. Normally, he would have dressed in a t-shirt or even just a jersey, but he hadn't done any laundry for quite some time so a white dress shirt had been the only clean option that morning. He hadn't bothered with a vest underneath, so undressing him did not take long. Mycroft made quick work of the trousers too, unzipping and pulling them down as if there was nothing strange or unusual at all about the whole situation. He guided Greg to first sit on top of the bed in order to remove his socks and then, just as gently, to stand up and walk into the bathroom. The shower was turned on, and soon enough the room was filled with steam.

"For the sake of your modesty, I'll trust you to remove your own pants." Mycroft said with a half smile. "I'll go and check in with Anthea."

When Greg walked back into the sitting room clad in the soft, navy blue set of pyjamas that he had found in the bag, he felt slightly better. Still tired and feeling the effects of scotch on an empty stomach, but at least clean and warm. Somehow the room now looked a lot tidier, with no sign of either empty takeaway containers, dirty glasses or discarded napkins. Mycroft, still sans jacket and with his sleeves rolled up halfway on his arms, looked up from his phone and smiled at him. 

"Feeling better? I believe Anthea has something for us, let's join her in the kitchen." 

Despite feeling so numb and slow, Greg could not help raising his eyebrows at the sight of the kitchen and - more particularly - the people IN the kitchen. Mr lots-of-muscles-in-a-suit was busy slicing bread at the counter, while his friend, equally as muscly, was occupied sorting out the trash and recycling under the sink. Anthea herself stood in front of the stove, stirring a pot with one hand and furiously typing away on her phone with the other hand. 

"Is that chicken soup?" Greg asked, still with his eyebrows impressively close to his hairline. 

"Yes it is." Anthea replied without looking up. "There is no better comfort food. Now sit." She pointed the wooden spoon towards the kitchen table, which was set for two. She had even managed to find a table cloth somewhere, and whoever cleaned up the sitting room had obviously done a great job in the kitchen too. 

"I didn't think you people knew how to cook..." Greg said, confused, as he was more or less manhandled into the chair by Mycroft. 

"Pish, I'm a woman of many talents, Detective Inspector. Now eat." She put a bowl of steaming soup down in front of him and next to it, a plate with garlic bread still hot from the oven. She looked at Mycroft and lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. 

"I'll serve myself, my dear. Thank you."

Anthea said nothing in return, instead leaving the kitchen with the two suits trailing after her. 

It was the best bloody chicken soup Greg had ever tasted. _There's nothing Anthea can't do, is there?_ He hadn't realised how much he missed proper food, and before he knew it the bowl was empty and all that was left of the bread were a few breadcrumbs on the plate. 

"How are you feeling now, Gregory?" Mycroft asked after finishing his own meal. "Tired?" 

"Yes. That and many other things… Listen Mycroft, I'm sorry you have to go through all this trouble for my sake." he replied, "I mean, the soup was great, and my flat hasn't been this clean in months, but I would've managed just fine without all this…"

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, because the politician's eyes suddenly became hard as flint and dangerously dark.

"Do I have to remind you, Gregory Raphael Lestrade, that not even two hours ago I had to break into your flat because you were about to put a gun to your head? I would not call that 'managing just fine'. You are lucky I came here on time, or God knows how this would have ended. Now, please cease your ridiculous attempt of downplaying the importance of your own well being." 

Gregory involuntarily flinched. He usually took great pride in how levelheaded he was when faced with all kinds of emotional outbursts from various criminals (or either of the Holmes brothers, come to that) but he was so exhausted right now. He had not spoken to anyone in person for a week, and Mycroft normally never directed his infamous Iceman persona at Greg. To his horror, he felt his eyes welling up with tears, and quickly bent his head to try to hide his embarrassing reaction from Mycroft. To no avail, of course, as the other man sighed and gently laid a hand on his arm. 

“Oh dear. My apologies, Gregory, it was not my intention to upset you. Perhaps you would like to go to bed now? We can discuss this further in the morning.”

“Do you mean… are you going to stay?” Greg said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “What about your work?” 

“I’m sure the nation will survive without me babysitting them for another 12 hours or so. Besides, I have my laptop in the car and as soon as I have set up a secure connection I can do most of my work from here. I cannot in good conscience leave you to your own devices at this point, Gregory. Surely you can understand that.”

“Well yeah, I guess… But your work…”

“It will be fine, Gregory. Trust me.” 

Once again, Greg found himself seized by the elbow and steered into the bedroom. There was no trace of Anthea or her minions, but they had clearly been in the bedroom before leaving the flat, as the bed was freshly made with new, clean sheets and the floor was no longer covered in heaps of dirty clothes. With a small flourish Mycroft flipped the duvet to the side, and waited as Greg climbed into bed before pulling up the duvet all the way to the policeman’s chin.

“Until tomorrow then, Gregory. Sleep well.'' he said with a pat on the other man's chest, before switching off the light and disappearing through the door. 

Greg’s body felt heavy and numb against the soft sheets, and he closed his eyes with a sigh. His last thought before sleep overcame him was _I can’t fucking believe that Mycroft Holmes just tucked me in bed._


	6. Intervention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will definitely be a bit longer than I had originally planned. There's not a lot of happy things going on in this chapter, but there will be later on!   
> I'm trying to convey Greg's feeling of emotional confusion here, I hope at least some of it comes through the text as intended, but it always seems much bleaker in text than in my mind... not very happy with this chapter to be honest, but it was either this or nothing so here you go :P
> 
> CW: mentions suicidal thoughts/attempt, panic attacks and severe depression.

Someone was calling his name, but Greg was busy, didn’t have time to turn around and see who it was. He was standing chest-deep in cold, dirty water and Sherlock Bloody Holmes was taunting him some distance away.  _ You can’t catch me, Glenn, just stop trying!  _ Greg lunged for him, tried to extend his arms far enough to get a grip on that bloody coat that Sherlock somehow was wearing even though they were both in the water. Fabric slipped through his fingers and he lost his balance, falling headfirst into the water. He put his feet down, expecting to find the bottom of the lake, but nothing was there. As he sunk deeper and deeper, he waved his arms around, trying to get a sense of which direction to swim in, but the water was dark and he couldn’t tell what was up or down.  _ This is it, then. I’m going to die while trying to save that bloody idiot from himself.  _ Then suddenly, someone grabbed him around his upper arms and shook him around, not the least bit gentle. 

“Jesus fucking Christ what the bloody fuck is happening?” he gasped as he abruptly woke up, covered in sweat and his face wet with what he strongly suspected was tears. 

“Oi, language mate!” someone said, with equal parts humour and concern in his voice. “You had a nightmare, Greg, just lay back down and relax for a bit. It’s alright.”

He slowly sank back onto the mattress, squinting his eyes in the dark to try to see who was seated on the edge of the bed. 

“John?” he said. “Where is Mycroft?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back. He called me in the middle of the night saying that he had to go for an emergency meeting of some sort and he wanted me to stay with you. And I’m bloody glad he called because why haven’t you told me any of this? You know you can tell me anything, mate.” 

Greg said nothing. He was glad of the darkness in the room, because he didn’t want to meet John’s eyes right now. Not now, not later, not ever. He just wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and die. He had wanted to tell John, but he hadn’t known what to tell him. “ _ By the way John, I’m so fucking depressed and I can’t sleep, eat or take care of myself properly. I can’t come to the pub because I’m busy crying on my sofa all the time.” Nah, I don’t think so.  _

His chest was burning. How was it possible to feel so many distressing emotions at once? He crawled further down the bed, pulling up the duvet over his head, wanting to hide from John and everything else.  _ Make it go away.  _

“Hey, hey… It’s alright. Don’t worry about it,” John said, his voice all soft and gentle. “We don’t have to talk about anything right now. Do you think you could go back to sleep? It’s only around four in the morning.” 

Greg nodded his head. Then he realised that John wouldn’t be able to see that since he was hiding under the sheets  _ like a bloody kid,  _ so he managed a raspy “yes.” 

“Okay then. I’m on the sofa in the sitting room, just let me know if you need anything.”

There was a moment of silence, and John took a breath as he was going to say something else, but apparently changed his mind. Instead he awkwardly patted Greg’s leg under the blankets, and walked out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. 

The next time he woke, it was a much calmer experience. Even before opening his eyes, he heard muffled voices through the door to the sitting room, but didn’t have the energy to try to make out what they were saying. He stayed where he was and kept his eyes closed, hoping that maybe sleep could come back and take him again so he wouldn’t have to get up. But any plans to stay in bed the whole day was disrupted when there came a soft knock on the door. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft’s unmistakable voice said. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” he mumbled, finally opening his eyes and squinting from the sunlight that was shining through the window. 

“I assume Dr Watson took good care of you?” Mycroft looked impeccable as always, dressed in a grey suit paired with a pale yellow waistcoat. “We have prepared some lunch if you would like to join us.”

“We?” 

“Yes, myself, Anthea and Dr. Watson, that is.”

“Is it chicken soup?” Greg suddenly felt hungry at the thought of Anthea’s delicious cooking and studiously ignored the other man’s chuckle at the question. “And also, lunch? What’s the bloody time?”

“It’s a quarter past noon”, Mycroft informed him after consulting his pocket watch. 

“Holy hell, I must’ve slept for…”

“Almost 15 hours, yes. Now, do you require any assistance in getting up?” 

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Just… uh… some privacy?” 

“Certainly.” Mycroft gave one of his half-smiles and left.

Greg stayed where he was for a few more minutes, trying to work up the courage to join the other three in the kitchen. He was grateful for them being here, but he was sure that they all had questions and suggestions for him and he didn’t want to deal with that just yet.  _ It's embarrassing, that’s what it is. A grown man having a full blown meltdown over nothing. They’ll probably toss me in the car and take me to the nearest mental hospital as soon as I show my sorry face. But I want to stay here.  _

He felt so confused, as if part of him wanted nothing more than to get out of bed, have a shower and eat a proper meal, but there was another part of him, something stronger, darker, that persistently refused. Almost subconsciously, he curled up under the sheets again and wrapped his arms around himself.  _ Can’t leave the bed. Don’t want them to take me anywhere.  _

“Gregory, are you alright?” Someone tried to pull the duvet off him, and he immediately pulled it back over his head and held it firmly in place. 

“NO! Don’t take me away! I don’t want to go!” 

“Gregory… Listen carefully to me. No one is going to take you anywhere. What do you need?” Mycroft said, his voice low but firm.

“I don’t know!” Greg shouted, suddenly feeling trapped underneath the duvet. He threw it aside and sat up, staring at the other man and breathing heavily. “I am going crazy Mycroft, you have to help me…” 

Mycroft grabbed both his hands and held them hard. He looked back at Greg and said, as calmly as if he was discussing the weather, “you are not going crazy. Now focus, and tell me. What do you need?” 

_ What do I need? I need… fucking hell, what is it?  _

“Hug me”, he croaked. Immediately Mycroft sat down next to him on the bed, moving as easy and graciously as a cat, and wrapped two strong arms around him. 

“Good man," Mycroft whispered and rocked him gently, “now breathe with me. Everything will be fine.”

There was no doubt that both John and Anthea had heard the full extent of his breakdown through the thin walls of the flat, but when he finally emerged from the bedroom some time later, neither of them commented on it. Mycroft followed close behind him, giving him a small push forward when he hesitated in the doorway to the kitchen. 

“You must be starving, mate,” John said and smiled. “Let’s eat!” 

“No chicken soup for you today,” Anthea said, an almost undetectable hint of fondness in her voice. “Lasagna will have to do instead," she said and indicated the kitchen table. 

“I hope they pay you well for being my personal babysitter,” he muttered in lieu of an answer and was surprised by Mycroft’s responding chuckle. 

“I’m sure no one has dared to call Anthea a babysitter before, you must have a death wish…” John joked, and immediately clamped his hands over his mouth and shook his head. “Sorry, that was extremely inappropriate! Sherlock has rubbed off on me I suppose,” he said and winced. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Greg said and sat down at the table next to Mycroft. “I feel like I’m in interrogation,” he continued while looking up on John and Anthea sitting across the table. “Don’t arrest me until I’ve eaten some lunch, please,” he joked, feeling surprisingly clear headed despite his earlier panic attack. 

“There will be no arrests made today,” Mycroft said with a twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps a few questions, but they can wait until after lunch,” he continued a bit more seriously. 

Lasagna eaten, dishes cleared and Anthea mysteriously disappearing to do something supposedly important, Greg sat down in the sitting room with Mycroft and John. He felt strangely nervous and couldn’t stop fidgeting. 

“Greg, don’t worry, all we want to do is discuss how we’re going to move forward. No one blames you for any of this.” John said, his voice revealing that he had gone into full on professional Doctor Watson mode. 

“Uh-huh,” Greg said, blinking. He accepted a cup of tea from Mycroft and sat up a bit straighter on the sofa. “I mean… I get that you have questions. I just don’t know how to explain… There are many things I can’t seem to figure out.” 

“I am aware you have not been your usual self, Gregory”, Mycroft said as he sat down on the sofa next to him. “I’ve seen the signs, but it wasn’t until we had lunch a fortnight ago that I became certain that something was wrong. Perhaps I should have been more persistent in my offer to you that day.”

“No it’s fine… I probably wouldn’t have accepted your help anyway. I’m a stubborn bastard, you know.”

“Mhm. It might be time to lay aside the stubbornness for the time being though. I could refer you to an excellent therapist I know —”

“No fucking way, Mycroft. I spent too many hours in therapy trying to patch up my marriage with Karen, and it all went to hell anyway. Therapists are a shady bunch of people, don’t understand what they get from wallowing in others misery.”

“Very well, there are other options. There is, for example, several kinds of antidepressants that might —”

“Nope. No medicine. Chemically induced happiness sounds like a load of bullshit, actually.”

“Greg!” John said despairingly. “There is nothing wrong with medication. I can make sure you get something that works for you, and no one needs to know anything if you’re worried about that…”

“It’s not that. I just… why can’t I work this out by myself?”

“Depression messes with your brain, Greg,” John replied. “You can’t just switch it off and go back to normal, it will take time and hard work, and medication can help with that.” 

“Well… Uh. Alright then. No therapy though.”

“You should talk to someone,” John persisted. “This is not easy to sort out on your own, and I know what I’m talking about,” he added pointedly. 

"I'll talk to you guys then,” Greg said defiantly. 

"That's not — ," John begun saying, but was interrupted by Mycroft. 

"Excellent. Now, currently it would be unwise for you to live alone. Would you rather stay at Baker Street or at my residence?" 

"Not Baker Street, for sure," Greg replied swiftly. "No offense John, but living with Sherlock would be a challenge even on a normal day." 

"Mm, tell me about it," John said and snorted. 

“One of the guestrooms at home is already prepared for you. Shall we?” Mycroft said and rose from the sofa, as efficient as always. 

“Uh, okay. Wow. Let me… pack?” 

“It’s already taken care of,” came the quick reply. 

A little while later, Greg sat down on the smooth leather seat in the back of Mycroft’s sleek Jaguar. All the talking and thinking had made him exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to lay down and rest. Mycroft’s long legs came through the car door, and the rest of the man’s lean frame followed. As soon as he was seated and the door closed, he started tapping on his phone and Greg was grateful that he wouldn’t have to keep up a conversation.  _ Wouldn’t bloody know what to say anyway. Thank you Mr British Government for taking time out of your busy schedule to pick up the pieces of your not-quite-friend when he almost did something unbearably stupid? _


	7. The talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARGH. I spent the whole day writing this chapter and just before publishing it something went wrong with google-stupid-docs and everything disappeared!! put my best hacking skills to use but was only able to restore around half of the text.  
> Uh. So had to rewrite big chunks of this, wasn't in a great mood while doing it either so I take no responsibility for the sadness, tiredness and general hopelessness of this chapter ;)  
> But don't worry, greg's turning point is coming soon! Also, Christmas is almost happening and surely Mycroft has at least a few tricks up his sleeve for that. 
> 
> Happy reading!

When he woke up for the third time that day, it took a couple of minutes before he remembered where he was and why. The bed was way too comfortable to be his own, and the fire in the fireplace was another telltale sign that he was not at home. The big, antique-looking bookshelves along one of the walls gave it away though - hundreds of books in alphabetical order? This was clearly Mycroft’s house.

He had fallen asleep in the car, and so when Mycroft apologetically shook him awake he had barely managed to get inside, toe his shoes off and fall into the nearest bed. There was a note for him on the nightstand, he noticed when he turned over. He squinted, cursing the fact that he was now officially old enough to need reading glasses, but eventually managed to read it. 

**Dear Gregory,** **  
** **I hope you have slept well. I had to leave for some urgent business, but I will be back tonight. Please make yourself at home, if there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask Mr Harris. He will be happy to assist you.** **  
****Until later,** **  
** **Mycroft**

_ Mr Harris? Of course Mycroft has a butler, _ he thought and rolled his eyes. Getting up from the bed was as hard as always, but eventually he rose and shuffled over to what he thought was the ensuite. He wasn’t sure what day it was any longer, and so he couldn’t quite remember when he had last had a shower. It was clearly time for one anyway, and he fervently hoped that there would be a toothbrush for him somewhere too because his mouth tasted like something had crawled inside it and died. 

The ensuite did not disappoint. He found a big basket with a generous selection of hand soaps, lotions and toothbrushes still in their wrappers, standing next to the sink. The shower was more or less a work of art.  _ Next time, I’ll enjoy this properly, _ he mused as he stood in it and looked at all the different buttons and handles that supposedly did things to the water stream, which was now washing over him in the imitation of a waterfall. A built-in shelf in the wall, covered in the same tasteful marble mosaic as the rest of the shower space, held various bottles and jars with body wash, scrubs and a fair amount of stuff he didn’t even know what it was. He chose something at random, scrunching up his nose when he found out that it smelled of cedar tree and lemongrass. 

He finished up quickly, wanting to go and see if Mycroft had come back, and if not, if maybe the butler could find him something edible. After haphazardly drying himself off, he went back into the bedroom and found a set of pyjamas laid out on the bed for him. It was similar to the ones he had worn the day before, but these were instead a dark green colour and came with a pair of matching slippers as well as a dressing gown. Normally, he would’ve teased Mycroft for being so posh, but the silky feeling of the soft fabric against his skin made all such thoughts disappear. 

The muffled sound of voices guided him towards what he vaguely remembered was Mycroft’s home office further down the corridor. He hesitated before raising his hand and knocking softly, not knowing if the half-opened door meant that he could come inside. 

“Enter,” Mycroft said before continuing to talk in a hushed voice, in something that clearly was not English. 

“Oh sorry, I didn’t know… I thought —” He startled at the sight of another person in the room, a tall, olive-skinned man with thick, black hair and with a suit almost as fine as the one Mycroft was wearing. Greg looked down at his own sleep clothes, and his face flushed with heat. 

“That’s quite alright Gregory, Mr Al-Nasser was just leaving, weren’t you?” Mycroft asked with thinly-veiled impatience. 

“I suppose so, Mr Holmes. I will see you at the meeting tomorrow, Insha’Allah.”

“Inshallah indeed,” the politician answered with a small eyeroll and rose from behind his desk. He walked over to the door where Greg was standing, and held out his arm to usher the visitor out of the room. 

“Thank you for a productive discussion, Mr Holmes. Do not let me interrupt the rest of your even—”

“Yes, good evening” Mycroft replied and closed the door more or less in the visitor's face. 

Greg gaped. 

“My apologies, Gregory. How are you feeling?” 

“Who was that?”

“A minister from the Emirates. He’s here to negotiate a deal with us about… something that unfortunately is above your security clearance, but he is one of the most irksome persons to ever enter politics. I have now instructed Anthea to keep the rest of my evening free, so don’t concern yourself with the prospect of other visitors.” He gestured for Greg to sit in the leather sofa next to the window, and walked over to the drinks cabinet in the corner. “Scotch?” 

“Uh… No. Thank you. I don’t feel like drinking.” 

“A wise decision. Are you feeling hungry?”

“Yes. Was hoping you’d ask that, actually,” Greg admitted sheepishly. 

Mycroft chuckled. “I think Lydia has prepared some tapas, but if you prefer something else —”

“No, anything is fine. Don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

At this, Mycroft leaned forward where he had taken a seat in an armchair opposite Greg, his eyes flashing bright. 

“It is no trouble. Trust me. You are not doing yourself a favour by trivialising your importance in your own and other people’s lives.” 

“...thank you? I think.” Greg didn’t know what else to say and busied himself with an invisible piece of lint on his dressing gown instead. 

Mycroft said nothing, but sent a quick text on his mobile phone before returning his attention to the tumbler of scotch he had poured himself earlier. 

Greg stared out the window. It was dark outside, but underneath the street lights the small drops of rain were visible.  _ My importance in other people’s lives?  _ He thought about Karen. About how they had been so disgustingly happy on their wedding day twenty years ago, and how equally angry they were with each other while divorcing. How she was probably a lot better off now, with an energetic and devoted boyfriend who could give her what she needed. Not some lousy copper who was always working, always tired. 

He thought about his mum, who used to be his best friend, and her sudden passing a few years earlier.  _ Life is so cruel, one minute you’re out shopping for groceries and the next you’re being loaded into an ambulance and dead before reaching the hospital. _ He missed her every day, still waiting for time to heal the wounds. He thought about his sister, how they had grown apart since mum’s death, how she always seemed to be too busy to get in touch or pick up the phone when he called. 

He thought about Sally, and all the other sergeants he had worked with during his many years in the force. About the grieving families and abandoned children. The murdered, assaulted and battered bodies of victims he had seen through the years. The suspects, who were many, and the ones he had actually succeeded in getting into prison where they belonged. They were fewer. He had wanted to be a copper because he thought it was his chance to do something good in the world, but no matter how many criminals you put behind bars, it was a race impossible to win. Evil always persisted. 

He thought about the kids he never had, how that particular dream had faded as his marriage had crumbled and his years had advanced. He was too old now. He would never be a father, or a grandfather. He would grow old, die, and no one would remember him. 

He drew a shaky breath as Mycroft sat down next to him on the sofa and offered him a handkerchief.  _ Am I crying again? Oh.  _

“Tell me about it,” Mycroft murmured, stroking his back. 

And he did. He talked until his throat was sore and his eyes were red and swollen from crying. At some point food was brought in, and he kept talking while picking random bits and pieces of food from the table. Mycroft hummed and nodded in all the right places, but rarely spoke. 

Eventually he closed his eyes and leaned back against the cushions. 

“And… and that’s it. I think.” He was exhausted again, despite having slept more than half of the day. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Mycroft said softly. 

“Can I go to sleep now?”

“Certainly. Let me help you.” 

Greg stumbled on the way to the guest room, thankful for Mycroft’s grip around his elbow. The politician barely had time to move the duvet aside before Greg fell into bed, toeing off his slippers as he went. He was vaguely aware of the other man moving around the room to put out the fire and turn off the lights, and then arranging the pillows and blankets around Greg. Just before sleep dragged him under, he thought he could feel a feather light stroke of his hair. 

“You are not alone, Gregory.” 


	8. Mycroft's story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I keep saying that I'll try to keep down the word count, but after this super long chapter I think I'll just have to give up and admit that there is nothing short and simple about this story ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm a lousy Sherlock fan and it's actually been years since I saw the series on TV. My timeline is probably all kinds of messed up and not at all true to the show... Sorry!  
> Disclaimer two: I know antidepressants take a bit more effort to sort out than what is described in this chapter, but let's just pretend for now :) 
> 
> Happy reading! And thanks for kudos and comments <3

When he woke up in the morning after arriving at Mycroft’s house, it finally occurred to him to check his phone and he immediately panicked over the amount of messages and missed calls, and the fact that it apparently was Monday. 

“Mycroft! I have to go to work!” he more or less shouted when he stumbled into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, staring at the phone in his hand. 

“You will do no such thing,” Mycroft replied, as calm as ever. “I have already talked to the Superintendent, and they are not expecting you back for at least a few weeks.”

“Oh.” Greg sat himself down at the nearest chair and tried to stay upright despite his body wanting to fall over from relief. 

“You need rest, not work. Unfortunately, I have to leave for work myself in a few minutes, but please do not concern yourself with such matters right now. Go back to bed, read a book, watch a movie. I believe the young these days call it ‘a mental health day’,” Mycroft said while clearing the table after his breakfast. 

“Oh.” Greg’s brain had apparently forgotten how to form actual words and put them together in sentences. 

“Until later, Gregory. Anthea will come over later, and if you need anything in the meantime, Lydia is around.”

Greg wasted no time getting back into bed, and so a few more days passed in a similar fashion. 

Mycroft had to leave the country on yet another urgent matter, but John and Anthea came by at least once a day, and even Sherlock showed up once too. Greg couldn’t contribute to the small talk they made, but he was grateful for the visits and for the knowledge that they cared about him. Sally never stopped by since she probably didn’t even know where he was, but she did text him a few times. He had no idea what Mycroft had told the Superintendent, but Sally asked no questions so he didn’t bother trying to explain either. 

The housekeeper, Lydia, always seemed to know what he needed before he had figured it out himself and he never had to ask for food, clean clothes or tablets for headaches.  _ Scary as hell, but bloody useful too,  _ he thought after waking up from a nap on the sofa feeling starving, only to find a tray with snacks and a steaming cup of tea sitting on the table. The butler was nowhere to be seen, but maybe Mycroft gave him time off while he was travelling?

Greg spent most of the time in front of the ridiculously huge TV, swapping through the channels and cozying up to the tabby cat he had discovered also lived in the house. It was a dark shade of ginger - not unlike the hair on the head of its owner - mixed up with white and a bit of brown. Greg immediately took to it, and the feeling seemed to be returned since the cat happily spent hours on his lap getting its fur stroked. 

One morning, when the December weather was unusually agreeable and the sun rose over a still, frosty London landscape, he ventured out in the garden. He had searched through the wardrobe in his room for whatever warm clothes he could find, and ended up wearing a too big winter coat together with a huge ushanka, the russian style fur hat. He grinned at the ridiculous image of himself in the mirror before going out, but definitely cared more about being warm than being stylish. 

He wandered around aimlessly, following a path of small stepping stones, before coming across a small shed tucked away in a corner of the garden. He was leaning forward, pressing his hands to the cold glass trying to see something through the window, when he heard steps approaching. 

“Looking for something, Gregory?” Mycroft said, amused. 

“No,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to snoop around.”

“It’s quite alright. I am pleased to see that you are feeling well enough to go outside. And I like the hat.”

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t have anything proper to wear.”

“I never wear it, so feel free to continue using it. Vladimir gave it to me, but he must’ve known it would look terrible on me, so I suppose it was done more in jest than as a sincere gift.” Mycroft pulled out a key from his coat pocket and unlocked the door of the shed. 

“Uh… Vladimir as in Vladimir Putin?” 

“The very same. Terrible taste in hats, that one,” came the muffled reply, as Mycroft was currently standing on his tiptoes inside the shed trying to reach something on a shelf. 

“Oh. Quite a bad taste in leadership methods too, don’t you think?” Greg couldn’t help replying. 

Mycroft chuckled as he emerged through the narrow door, arms full of blankets. He threw one of them over a bench underneath a nearby tree, sat himself down and covered his legs with another blanket before gesturing for Greg to sit down. 

“Blanket?” he offered. 

“Uhm, yes. Please,” Greg said, not quite used to this care-free, fun side of the politician. “How was your trip?”

“Successful, eventually. But very dull, I’m glad to be back. How have you fared? Has Anthea been here?”

“Yes, once or twice every day since you went. John has been here too, he brought my medication so that’s all been sorted now. Even Sherlock came over for a bit, I think it was yesterday. Couldn’t believe it at first.” 

“Sherlock cares for you a great deal, Gregory. Only, for reasons that are beyond my comprehension, he doesn’t like anyone to know that.”

They sat in silence for a bit. Greg was trying to sort out his thoughts about Sherlock, Putin and his hats, and  _ why are we sitting here in the cold and does he expect me to talk about something in particular?  _ Mycroft seemed preoccupied with observing a robin redbreast flying in and out of a birdhouse. 

“Can I ask you something?,” Greg finally blurted out. 

“Certainly,” the other man replied without taking his eyes off the birdhouse. 

“Why is it… How come you are so good at this? Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Greg felt himself blushing as if his body already knew how much he was going to screw this up, “but I mean, I know your brother and he’s the most emotionally constipated man in the whole of London… But you’re just so —, so supportive and you don’t freak out about me crying all the time or sleeping the whole day or —, you know. All those things.”

“Mm, yes.” Mycroft said. “And thank you.”

For a little while, the only sound in the garden was the chirping of the hungry robin nestlings in the birdhouse. Greg was just about to apologize for bringing it up, since the other man was obviously reluctant to discuss it, when Mycroft spoke up. 

“It has not always been this easy for me, Gregory,” he said and looked out over the garden. His hands were still in his lap, unlike Greg who couldn’t stop fidgeting. “I don’t know how much Sherlock has told you, or if he has told you anything at all, but our parents were not precisely the loving kind. My mother was a distinguished mathematician before I was born, well-known in her field and remarkably intelligent.”

“Obviously,” Greg said, more to himself than to Mycroft. 

“Father and Mummy were absent through most of our childhood. We have always been well-to-do in terms of finances, so Sherlock and I were left to fend for ourselves in the family estate, with the company of various nannies and butlers. It took me many years to understand that this was not normal parenting. I knew nothing else.”

Greg nodded, not wanting to interrupt. He knew most of this already, having picked up on small snippets of information from the two brothers. 

“As it turns out, being alone for most of your childhood does not exactly teach you any emotional skills,” the other man continued with a small, self-deprecating snort. “Being a genius did not make it any easier either. I went to university when I had just turned fifteen, and I found it very difficult to navigate the social environment there. My uncle Rudy convinced me that the sensible thing to do was to keep my head down, focus on my studies and to not waste energy on caring about anyone else.”

Mycroft reached inside his coat and, to Greg’s amusement and surprise, pulled out a sleek, black hip flask. He took a hearty sip of whatever was inside, and then offered it to Greg, who shook his head. It was still quite early in the morning, after all. 

“So that’s what I did. I was awfully curious at first about what the other students got up to at their parties and outings, but I did as uncle Rudy had told me and kept to myself. Until my last year of studies, when we had to choose a partner for a school project, and I ended up studying together with the most beautiful man my 20-year-old-self had ever laid eyes upon,” Mycroft said, staring into the distance. 

“His name was Daniel. He was witty, sufficiently intelligent and with a physique like a Greek god. It was a whirlwind romance, by all accounts. We were nearing the end of our studies, and we both had so much to do, but we managed to find a bit of time in between lectures and assignments, and — I know you might find this hard to believe, Gregory, but I was hopelessly in love. Daniel made me forget everything I had promised Uncle Rudy.”

“What happened to the both of you?”, Greg asked when the politician seemed to hesitate on how to continue the story. 

“Ah, well. It turned out that Daniel’s reasons for our relationship were a bit different than my own. After a couple of months, he revealed to me that it had all been a wager between him and his friends. They thought it was nearly impossible for anyone to befriend the weird, awkward genius in class, so decided to see which of them would succeed first.”

“Oh Mycroft,” Greg whispered, instinctually reaching out and giving the other man’s hand a firm squeeze. 

“At least he had the nerve to be embarrassed about it. He tried to ask me for forgiveness, but I’m afraid his apology fell on deaf ears. I tried to lessen the emotional distress by speaking to Uncle Rudy about it, but he only chided me for having those emotions in the first place.”

“Oh Mycroft,” Greg repeated, at a loss for anything else to say. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright, Gregory. It was a long time ago. But, alas, it set the tone for how I chose to approach emotional matters for years afterwards. My code name at MI6 was Antarctica, and for good reason too. I was too hurt and angry to realise that Uncle Rudy’s mantra of ‘caring is not an advantage’ was deeply flawed, and instead I took it to heart and refused to let anyone near me for a long time.”

“You must’ve been lonely,” Greg remarked, his voice rough. 

“Yes,” the politician replied with a sigh. “I spent many years being lonely, thinking it was all for the best. It was not until the horrific incident with Eurus at Sherrinford that I realised that something had to be done. Anthea, bless her, made quite a few creative threats in order to make me attend the mandatory therapist sessions afterwards.”

He fell silent for a while, presumably lost in memories. Greg wrapped the blanket around himself and glanced over at the other man. His face was full of emotion, and Greg’s heart ached for him. 

“And then?” he gently prompted when they had sat in silence for several minutes. 

“Apologies.” Mycroft cleared his throat before continuing. “Kelly, the staff therapist, was young enough to be my daughter and I severely doubted she could perform her duties adequately. Staying true to my habits, I intended to tell her nothing of importance and just get it over with as soon as possible. She debunked my plan straight away and made me sign up for weekly sessions for almost two years afterwards. I was furious, but in hindsight it was exactly what I needed.”

“She sounds like a better deal than the nutcase I met for marriage counselling,” Greg huffed. 

“Mm, I suppose so,” Mycroft replied with a chuckle. “I spent many sessions in Kelly’s office working through the shambles of my childhood and the unfortunate events with Daniel, and of course everything that happened with Eurus. It has been very hard work. I had to learn and relearn many things that come naturally to most other people. Communication skills, gentleness, compassion —”

“Oh shut up,” Greg said, suddenly annoyed with this Kelly for letting Mycroft believe he had been heartless before she came along and sorted him out. “I have known you for almost ten years now and you have always had compassion! Maybe you haven’t been known for your gentleness or great communication skills, but who needs such soppy skills anyway?”

Mycroft grinned, which was so unlike him that Greg’s brain had to reboot real quick. “Thank you, Gregory. I do suppose that I have always cared for those closest to me in some way."

"Sherlock," Greg said, unwilling to drop the subject just yet. "You've always cared for Sherlock, and he'd be nothing if it weren't for you. Tell Kelly that!"

"I'll make sure to give her your regards during our next session," the politician replied with a smile. 

"You still meet with her?" 

"Yes, once every two months. I find it helpful, knowing that if something arises that I feel unable to deal with in an adequate way, I can work through it with her at a later time. So, to answer your original question, I have Kelly and hard work to thank for my improved ability to handle emotions." 

Silence fell over them once again. Greg had no idea how long they had been seated out there, but his backside was beginning to numb from the cold and he felt more than a bit hungry. Strangely, considering everything Mycroft had just shared with him, he also felt a bit lighter and less tired than usual.  _ We all have stories _ , he thought.  _ Mycroft has been through hell and back, and he still came out fine on the other side. If he can do it, so could I…  _

"Apologies for keeping you out here so long," Mycroft said and rose from the bench. "Are you cold?" 

"A bit, but I'll be fine. I had a nice hat to keep me warm, you know," Greg teased. “I'd kill for a cuppa and some toast though."

"That can be arranged," Mycroft said as he put the blankets back in the shed. 

On their way back to the house, Greg was delighted to see a streak of ginger fur running past them. He made a low whistling sound and scooped up the cat in his arms when it came trotting back to him. 

"Hello sir," he cooed, oblivious to the fact that Mycroft was standing next to him with an amused smile on his face. "Are you allowed outside or have you escaped, hm? Is it not too cold for you here, your Highness?" He buried his fingers in the soft fur, scratching the cat behind its ears. 

"I see that you have met Mr Harris," Mycroft said and reached out to pet the animal. 

Greg gaped. "This is Mr Harris?" 

"Yes. Although I'm sure he will not complain about being called your Highness or Sir instead," the other man said and chuckled. 

"I thought you said Mr Harris was the butler!" 

"I never said any such thing, Gregory." 

"But, the note —" 

"I said you can ask Mr Harris if you need anything, and that he would be happy to assist you. And hasn't he? Aren't you always so happy and helpful Mr Harris?" He scratched the belly of the cat, who had now turned over in Greg's arm and looked as if it was thoroughly enjoying the attention. 

Greg's brain did its second reboot for the day, and he made a snorting laugh, his first in several weeks. 

"You're a man of many surprises, Mycroft Holmes."


End file.
